


Writing in Bars

by notjustmom



Series: Snippets and Doodles [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-17 01:16:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13648380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom
Summary: an alternative first meeting...





	1. Chapter 1

"Bit of a cliché isn't it?"

"What is?"

"A writer in a bar?"

"How do you know I'm a writer?"

"I've seen your blog."

"That doesn't make me a writer." John rolled his eyes and took a sip of his club soda with lime.

"No." Sherlock picked up John's left hand and stroked the callus he had built up on his finger. "But this does. You only get a well-developed callus like this when you spend hours holding a pen too tightly. But, it's getting soft, you are going through a bit of writer's block... if you come back at closing time, I think I might be able to help with that -"

"Oh, yeah?" John snorted as he glared at his inoffensively offensive club soda and ordered a double of his most top shelf whisky.

Sherlock grinned as he placed a napkin in front of him, and poured out his drink. "I'll be off in three hours."

"I can wait."


	2. Pickles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> old habits are hard to break...

There is always a jar of pickles in the fridge. Sometimes John finds it next to the thumbs or whatever shouldn't be in there, or in the door - but it's always there. It's rarely nearly empty or halfway full, but John will find the empties in the recycling bin. He knows he doesn't eat them, he can't stand the things, so it must be Sherlock, but he never catches him eating them, and he never comes to bed smelling of pickles.

Finally, one morning, when he can't sleep, and finds the bed empty, he stumbles into the kitchen to find Sherlock standing next to the sink, holding a jar - it's nearly empty - the extra garlicky kind...

"Why?" John asks, as he rubs his eyes.

"Habit, I suppose."

"Habit?"

Sherlock sighed as he replaced the lid and returned the jar to the fridge. "I've given up drugs, the smokes... pickles, I guess are the last vestige of my old life, before you - and I know you loathe pickles... so..."

John shook his head and mumbled, "idiot," then kissed him hard, tasting the pungent, garlicky sourness of Sherlock's lips, and decided that just maybe, pickles weren't so bad...


End file.
